Mother Mine
by MinervaDeannaBond
Summary: A serial killer known as "The Constant Gardener" stalks Manhattan, killing women named after flowers. Sherlock and Joan are tasked with protecting the next intended victim - a woman with deeper ties to Sherlock than anyone realized.
1. Prologue: A Faded Rose

I've been an _Elementary _fan for quite some time now, but I never got a good idea for a story until recently. We've all heard Sherlock mention his father numerous times, and we've met his older brother Mycroft, but there's one member of his family who's never been mentioned or seen. This is my take on what might happen when we meet Sherlock's mom.

* * *

The song had been playing on a continuous loop for an hour straight. Not just playing – make that _blasting. _Oh, there was no denying it was a pretty ballad, happy-sappy enough to satisfy the palate of anyone who loved fairy tales, love stories, and all things Disney, but stuck on an hour-long loop? Jeez Louise, it was enough to make the most ardent Broadway nut bust out the heavy metal.

Brian Marino was neither a fairy tale freak nor a sucker for show tunes, and he definitely was not a fan of the Divine Miss M – at least, not of the song that had been steadily filtering through the wall of his apartment, which was smack-dab next to the one that housed the source of the syrupy ballad. After an hour of hearing Bette Midler sing about that blessed rose, he'd had enough. It was time to pay his neighbor a visit.

"Mrs. Kelleher?" He knocked on the door of his 60-something neighbor's apartment, willing his voice to remain calm, no matter how irritated he was. "Mrs. Kelleher, no offense, but could you kill that song? It's kinda getting on my nerves over here." When no answer came, Brian knocked again, louder and harder this time. Mrs. Kelleher was hard of hearing, after all, so maybe that would account for the music going full blast. But on a loop? That was a mystery he wanted to solve for himself. "Mrs. Kelleher?" No answer, so the knocking escalated to pounding and his calling to shouting. "Mrs. Kelleher! Open up and kill the music, for crying out loud!" When still no answer came, Brian cursed under his breath and jiggled the doorknob, stunned when it turned and the door swung open easily. _About time, _he thought angrily, storming over the threshold with a mouthful of words ready to hurl at his neighbor. "Mrs. Kelleher, have you gone totally deaf or are you just dead as a –"

The rest of the sentence never came. Brian froze and felt his entire body begin to shake at the gruesome sight that assaulted his eyes.

Rose Kelleher, his next-door neighbor, was lying spread-eagled on the floor of her apartment, glassy blue eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling, while her blonde hair soaked up the blood that pooled around her body. A brilliant red splotch of crimson marred the otherwise flawless white of her blouse, blood seeping from a single wound to the chest, and her skin was the ashen gray color of death. Next to her, well away from the pond of blood, were two objects: a black-and-white photograph and a small bouquet of flowers – violets.

"Oh, God..." This was bad with capital letters. Not only had Brian just busted into a crime scene, he'd found the latest victim of the serial killer who'd been terrorizing New York for the last four weeks. As he yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911 to alert the police, he took another look at the calling cards and knew there was no doubt about it.

The Constant Gardener had struck again.


	2. Jump Start

As our story begins, Sherlock and Joan get a jump start - literally. I tried to think of something goofy for this scenario, since there's usually something completely random happening at the brownstone, so... let's just say that Sherlock is hopping to it.

* * *

"All right, get the lead out! Move it, Sherlock!"

In the two years since he'd met his sober companion-turned-apprentice, Sherlock Holmes had never known Joan Watson to be aggressive. Her approach was very much in the passive-aggressive vein – she preferred to use calm and control to get a point across or give a command, sprinkled with a dash of reverse psychology and served over a generous portion of tough love. Very rarely was she anything even remotely resembling aggressiveness.

Today, however, she was completely aggressive with no passivity in sight, barking orders like a drill sergeant while he was transforming himself into a bloody jumping jackanapes – at her behest, no less. A rope flew over his head and under his feet in a steady series of arcs while his shoes pounded the hardwood floors; his legs, though aching at an infinitesimal rate through his calf muscles and thighs, were sproinging his body up and down as though they were made of rubber and springs rather than muscle and sinew; and perspiration streamed from every pore in rivulets, soaking his skin as he jumped. No, Sherlock had never seen the day when a beloved children's pastime could be employed as a nasty act of torture, but now he had an inkling that that day was dawning like the advent of the Apocalypse.

"Miss Watson," he panted, swinging the rope over and under for all he was worth, "at the risk of being trussed like a Christmas goose with this rope, what is the point of this exercise? And if I may be so bold, is it an exercise in fitness or in torture?"

Standing well clear of the flying rope yet near enough to speak without shouting, Joan braced her hands on her hips and shot him a filthy look, her almond-shaped eyes and their dark brown depths adding a sense of true vengeance to the effect. "Oh, this is most definitely torture. You nearly killed me with last week's 'centering' session, so I'm merely returning the favor."

"Those were a series of well-organized and practical calisthenics to stimulate your cognition, which, need I remind you, is absolutely vital to our continued success as consulting detectives. Considering that my level of cognition far outstrips that of the average _Homo sapiens, _I have to wonder if this is either your way of taking sweet revenge or merely an excuse to see me shirtless."

Joan fought the urge to roll her eyes as she scrutinized her partner. Sweat was rolling off Sherlock's bare upper torso so furiously, it was a miracle his tattoos weren't melting in a waterfall of ink. "Sometimes I think if I look up _narcissist _in the dictionary, I'll find your picture next to the definition."

"I prefer the term _egoist, _as it implies that one has a heightened sense of self but does not go around bragging about it. And before you formulate an appropriate retort, I do not brag about my powers of observation, let me make that perfectly clear. I merely tell the truth."

"Mmm-hmm. Well, I can tell you the truth right now: the torture is just getting started. I haven't even busted out the rhymes yet."

"Rhymes?" Sherlock's eyes widened. _Dear God, no!_

"Jump to it, Sherlock!" Joan began reciting an old skipping rhyme to the tune of her partner's jumps. "I asked my parents for fifteen cents to see the platypus jump the fence –"

"Considering that it's physically impossible for a platypus to jump a fence or anything of the sort, I'd call that a bloody waste of fifteen cents," Sherlock quipped as he continued to bounce up and down.

"Will you focus, please?" Joan groaned.

"I believe you know, Miss Watson, that I am perfectly capable of focusing on not one, not two, but up to six things at once." Just then, his cell phone rang from a nearby coffee table. "Except in cases such as this, when I must devote my full attention to a call."

"You're not getting a break," Joan warned as he jumped rope over to the coffee table, let the rope fall to the floor with a clatter of its handles, and picked up the phone. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock ignored her as he answered the call, and Joan stood glaring at him until her own phone rang. Upon seeing the caller ID show Captain Gregson's name, she stepped away from her partner to allow them both some space and answered the call. "Hey, Captain, what's going on?"

"Hey, I'm glad I got you," Gregson's deep New York accent drawled over the phone. "I tried Holmes, but his line's busy."

"Yeah, he's in the middle of a call. Is there something wrong?"

"There always is, Joan, and today there's something seriously wrong. You and Holmes need to get down here to East 68th. There's been a homicide – and there were flowers and a photo beside the victim."

Joan stole a glance at Sherlock. "He's back, isn't he?"

A beat of silence passed before Gregson replied. "Yeah."

_Oh, Lord... _the Constant Gardener had claimed his newest victim. Joan and Sherlock had been working with the NYPD for the past four weeks to catch the killer, and nothing had turned up yet. One victim every week, each one bearing the name of a flower... innocent women, all of them.

They had to stop this murderer.

"We'll be there right away," Joan said, pulling out a pen and paper to take down information. "What's the address?"

"18 East 68th Street, Apartment 3B. Bell will be waiting for you outside."

"Got it, Captain. We're on our way." Joan ended the call and strode back to Sherlock, who had likewise ended his own conversation. "We have to go. That was Captain Gregson; there's been a homicide on East 68th Street."

"Unfortunately, I cannot accompany you. That was Alfredo on the phone, and he requires my advice and assistance in a rather delicate situation."

As soon as he mentioned Alfredo's name, Joan knew they had a pickle on their hands. On one hand, she needed Sherlock's presence at the crime scene, but on the other, he couldn't ignore a call from the recovering addict he was sponsoring through NA. Still... "Sherlock, it's the Constant Gardener."

Sherlock froze just as he was toweling off, and Joan could see the muscles in his shoulders tightening. "His fourth victim?"

"Yes."

"The same calling cards?"

"Yes. Flowers and a photo."

Sherlock closed his eyes and continued mopping his face and chest. "As difficult as it is to tear myself from this particular case, I believe that I have to help Alfredo in any way possible. His sponsor is coming dangerously close to relapsing, and if I can help him save a life..."

Joan sighed, both the doctor and the compassionate woman in her knowing that he was right. "I understand. You go and help Alfredo. I'll explain to Captain Gregson why you couldn't make it."

Sherlock nodded, slipping on a black Oxford shirt and buttoning it up. "If you're at all worried about handling this on your own, there's no need to be. You are more than capable of using your own powers of observation to great effect, as you have demonstrated in the past. And trust me when I say this, Watson," he said, looking down at her with the expression that Joan had come to interpret as his own special look of fondness for her, inscrutable as it looked, "I do not give compliments like that lightly."

One corner of her mouth twitched upward. "That I can easily believe. Go on, get out of here. I'll call you when I learn more about the murder."

Satisfied, Sherlock nodded again and was on his way out when Joan called to him. "Sherlock!"

His hand on the doorknob, he turned to face her expectantly. What he wasn't expecting were her next two words. "Thank you."

Taken by surprise, Sherlock very nearly found himself smiling. Harder than nails one minute and soft and vulnerable as a rose the next, that was Joan Watson. But why? Was it just a quirk of the female sex, or was it something else, something deeper? His partner was a glorious mystery that he would gladly spend a lifetime trying to solve. "You're welcome." _Someday, Joan Watson, I will find out what makes you tick, _he thought as he departed.


	3. Modus Operandi

Last time, Sherlock was off to help Alfredo. Now, Joan is off to help Gregson and Bell, and to get her assignment to protect the next intended victim.

* * *

Red and blue lights were flashing jewel-bright in the late afternoon sunlight and cops were milling about in front of a stately building on East 68th Street by the time Joan arrived. An ambulance was waiting to bear the victim's body to the morgue, and Detective Marcus Bell was waiting for Joan just behind the yellow police tape that cordoned off the area.

"Hey, where's Holmes?" he asked, holding the tape out of Joan's way so she could duck under easily.

"He got a call from his sponsee Alfredo just before you guys called," Joan explained. "He's going to see if he can help prevent a relapse, but he gave me his blessing to fly solo today."

"Nice," Bell said appreciatively. "Good to know he actually trusts you to do the job right." He gestured to the building's open front door. "Shall we?" They entered the building and took the stairs to the third floor, where Joan could see more cops shuffling in and out of the first apartment on the right.

Captain Thomas Gregson was standing in the middle of the spacious living room, looking down at the pale body of an older woman lying in a small pond of blood. He looked up as Bell and Joan approached. "Hey, glad you could make it. Where's Holmes at?"

"Call from his NA sponsee; possible relapse. I'm here on my own today."

Gregson nodded once, an expression of _okay-that-makes-sense _on his face. This kind of news was rare, but not unheard of, and Gregson knew Joan well enough to trust her with any crime scene investigation – her observational skills had grown almost as sharp as Sherlock's, and coupled with her medical knowledge, she was a valuable investigator to have at any murder scene. So it boosted Joan's confidence when he asked no further questions and got right down to business. "Our victim's name is Rose Kelleher, 68 years old, widowed, two kids. We got the call when her neighbor found her body about an hour ago – apparently, he'd come over to complain about Bette Midler's song 'The Rose' being played on a loop at full blast, so he busted in and saw her lying here."

"Wait a second, he busted in? It didn't look like the door was forced. The hinges and deadbolt are perfectly intact."

"That's because the killer left the door unlocked," Bell said to Joan. "The neighbor, Brian Marino, told us he'd been beating on the door to no answer, so he jiggled the knob to see if that'd get her attention and found it was unlocked. That's when he opened it up and nearly had a heart attack."

"Oh, I get it." Joan knelt beside Rose Kelleher's corpse and Bell followed suit, handing her a pair of latex gloves. She snapped them on and went to work on her observation. "Well, I have to give the Constant Gardener credit: his MO never changes. She died of a single stab wound through the heart…" She gently probed the wound and, through the congealed blood, discovered shredded skin. "And the murder weapon was a serrated knife or something with a jagged edge, judging by the shredding of the epidermis surrounding the heart." She then examined Rose's neck and wrists. "No bruises or other signs indicating a struggle, which most likely means that she knew the killer."

Bell sighed. "Just like the last three victims. Same wound, same weapon, same everything. By the way, don't you think it's weird that they all knew this sicko?"

"Not so weird if you think about it," Gregson said. "A lot of serial killers like to befriend their victims before they kill. It makes 'em nice and comfortable so they don't see the murder coming. Jeez, look at Jeffrey Dahmer."

"That's right; they have to turn on the charm. It's part of their pattern – and speaking of which, do either of you guys notice a pattern with all of the victims?"

"They're all blonde."

"They all have blue eyes and fair skin."

"True, but those things aside, what are the two things that really stand out?"

Bell snapped his fingers. "Their names. We dubbed this guy 'the Constant Gardener' because all of his victims were named after flowers. Daisy McAllister…"

"Iris Callistano, Lily Bertram…"

"And Rose Kelleher," Joan finished. "This is one of the most unique patterns I've ever seen, but it's predictable to a degree, because we know his next victim has a flower name."

"Yeah, and we think we know who." Gregson produced an evidence bag, which contained a small bouquet of violets and a photograph. Opening the bag, he withdrew the photo and handed it to Joan. "All the other pics of the victims were just like this: black-and-white headshots of their younger selves, which made it that much harder to track them for police protection. This one, however, is another story. Bell took a snap of it with his phone and got a hit right away, and no wonder we did. She has something the others didn't: fame."

Bell picked up where Gregson left off. "Her name is Violet Sherrinford, and she used to be a homicide detective sergeant for Scotland Yard. She's famous because she was their first successful female detective."

"So she's British. How old is she now?"

"70 years old just last month."

Joan studied the photo. The young Violet Sherrinford was certainly beautiful. Even with the black-and-white image, Joan could tell that the woman's hair was a shining golden blonde and that her eyes were blue… and familiar somehow. They were huge and glowing with an intelligence that reminded Joan eerily of…

"Joan? You okay?"

Joan blinked, snapped out of it by Bell's voice. "What? Yeah, I'm fine. It's just something about her eyes," she said, handing the picture back to Gregson. "Anyway, I asked about her age because that's the second pattern with the victims: they're all older women, usually around 65 to 70 years old. That's unusual for a serial killer, because most prefer young victims."

"Good point. We'll have to do some digging on that."

Joan squared her shoulders and looked up at Gregson, awaiting orders. "What do you need me to do?"

Gregson fished inside his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper, which he gave to Joan. "Violet Sherrinford's address. She moved to New York around three months ago and lives in a house near Central Park. Go there, get her, and take her back to the brownstone. You're gonna protect her from our killer, and you're also gonna find out anything you can about any shady characters in her life."

Joan was stunned. "You actually want me to take her into protective custody?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, absolutely not, not if it means saving her life and catching the Constant Gardener. I'm just wondering how I'm gonna tell Sherlock."

"You want my advice? Don't tell him until you've got Violet at the house, 'cause that way he can't argue with you too much. Also, it might be better if you go by yourself."

"Because Violet will be more comfortable with a woman?"

Gregson smiled. "I don't mean it the way it sounds. Trust me, I'm not a sexist anything."

Joan returned his grin. "I know, and I agree with you. Women are more likely to trust other women, especially in a city like this. I won't breathe a word to Sherlock until he meets Violet himself."

"Good. Now let's get to work. We've got a gardener to weed out."


	4. The Unshrinkable Violet

Last time, Joan received her assignment to find Violet Sherrinford. She finds her, all right, but she's not quite what Joan was expecting...

P.S. If this were an episode of _Elementary, _who would you pick to play Violet? See if your guess comes close to the actress I had in mind!

* * *

Violet Sherrinford lived in an English-style townhouse snuggled between two high-rise apartment buildings at the edge of Central Park. It looked cozy enough from the outside, yet Joan had learned from experience never to take anything at face value. As she approached, she took notice of several things: beautiful and lush plants that had obviously been raised and tended with a loving hand; clean yet unfussy curtains draping the windows; and immaculate brass accents decorating the front door. Sherlock had taught her that even one's house could speak volumes about its occupants, and Violet Sherrinford's house said that she was well-organized and practical, yet possessed of a gentle side. Armed with this perception, as well as the image of her younger self, Joan marched up the steps and was about to knock when she noticed something new... something that set off alarm bells inside.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough to fool outsiders into thinking that it was closed. Yet Joan, with the trained observer's eye she had nurtured while under Sherlock's tutelage, could see a small crack between door and frame and feel a draft coming from inside the house. It was late spring going on summer, so it was natural that the air conditioning would be on, yet Joan knew well that no one in their right mind left a door open to air-condition the great outdoors. No, something was wrong here, and she was going to find out what.

All rules of etiquette flying out the window, Joan pushed open the door and checked around for any sign of movement – first in the corners nearest the door, then farther on ahead before venturing inside. When she was sure that the corners were clear, she crossed the threshold and entered the house. What she saw confirmed her worst fears. The place was absolutely trashed – books scattered about, some open, some with pages torn asunder; pillows slashed and feathers and stuffing strewn about; a nearby mirror shattered, and more. Somebody had clearly broken in. The Constant Gardener, perhaps? _No, this doesn't match his MO, _Joan thought, recalling the previous four cases. _None of the apartments in question were torn apart like this. No, this has to be a robbery. Question is, where's the burglar? More to the point, where's Violet?_

Joan didn't have to wait for an answer. She had been walking along with the panther prowl that years of martial arts had wrought in her, light and lithe so that her footsteps did not echo and startle any intruder that might still be lurking about. The silence, ironically, had done very little to alert her to the presence creeping up behind her, which she now saw in the form of a huge shadow raising an elongated weapon over its head. Thinking quickly, Joan grabbed the nearest object she could find – a cast-iron frying pan – and, rapidly calculating where the weapon would strike, let out a karate yell and swung the pan around with all of her strength.

An almighty CLANG! tore the silence as metal met wood. The impact was so powerful that it reverberated off the walls and sent vibrations jiggling and jouncing up Joan's arms and into the rest of her body. Once she had regained her senses, she blinked furiously and found herself staring at the weapon that her frying pan was still touching. It was a cricket bat, a long wooden cricket bat. Had the situation not been so tense, Joan would have breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't been walloped with that thing. One good smack and she would have been the recipient of a skull fracture or worse. As it was, the impact of the bat against the frying pan had shaken her and nearly deafened her a decibel or two, but not so badly that she couldn't hear the bat's owner addressing her for the first time. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Joan's eyes made a gradual journey upward. They roamed up the bat to a pair of hands – the left bearing a white gold wedding band – to arms draped in royal blue silk, to a gold pendant portraying a circle enveloping a heart, to the present-day version of the face that had stared back at her in that morning's black-and-white photograph. And although she knew there was no mistaking the woman, Joan asked the standard question anyway as a form of courtesy. "Violet Sherrinford?"

The woman's eyes, narrowed in a glare, widened in surprise. "How do you know my name?" She kept her cricket bat raised, as Joan did likewise with the frying pan, although neither one of them swung again.

Joan's grip tightened on the frying pan. "Your life is in danger. I'm here on behalf of the NYPD to take you into protective custody."

Violet let out a mirthless laugh. "Nice try, child. Unless you can show me a badge and a court order that doesn't look like the product of a Long Island ID shark, I'm not going anywhere. And you're going out." She shoved the frying pan out of the way with her cricket bat and advanced on Joan.

Joan raised the frying pan again and backed up. "Wait, you don't understand!"

"Understand nothing!"

"I'm a consulting detective with the NYPD!"

"Get out!"

Before Violet could show her the door headfirst, Joan cried out her name, praying that at least that would be recognized. "My name is Joan Watson!"

It worked. Violet froze with the bat raised over her head and stared at Joan as though she had never seen her before. "Joan Watson?" Her voice was slightly breathy this time, in contrast to the bitter coldness it had borne just seconds earlier. "The same Joan Watson who works with Sherlock Holmes? The former surgeon?"

Now it was Joan's turn to be surprised. She'd wondered if her name might be recognized, but few people outside of New York knew that she used to be a surgeon before she became Sherlock's partner. "How did you know I was a surgeon?"

"I've been following your work for quite some time now. You two are quite possibly the best detectives I've seen in years, and coming from a 40-year veteran of Scotland Yard, that is saying something." At last, Violet lowered the bat and offered her hand to Joan. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Watson."

Joan likewise abandoned the frying pan and shook the older woman's hand vigorously. "The pleasure's all mine, Ms. Sherrinford, and please, call me Joan."

"If you'll call me Violet. I'd offer you some tea, but I'm afraid the house is in no condition for entertaining guests, as you can see from the lovely state my little intruder left it in."

"It's no problem. And speaking of the burglar, where is he?"

"Right where I left him after I conked him with that cricket bat." Violet motioned for Joan to follow her back to the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a black-clad man in a cream-smeared ski mask sprawled unconscious on the linoleum. "I was upstairs reading when I heard him break the latch on the door, and I grabbed the nearest thing I could find: my cricket bat from my school days. I came downstairs thinking he was after my silver or something of the like and I did indeed find the ground floor a wreck, but imagine my surprise when I came in here and found him foraging in the refrigerator. He heard me coming and pulled a gun, but I gave him a good whack before he could shoot. Spun him right around and knocked him out, but unfortunately, he landed face-first into the banana cream pie I'd just made." She shook her head at the dozing burglar. "I regret not getting a taste of that pie, but at least I can say that he quite literally got his just desserts."

For some reason, Joan found that last statement funny, and she started to laugh. Violet watched her interestedly for a good ten seconds before she started to snicker as well. In no time, she was roaring with laughter. They laughed helplessly on among the wreckage of the house until they could both get themselves under control, and even then it was something of a struggle.

"Oh, merciful heavens," Violet chuckled, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, "I can't remember the last time I've laughed so hard."

"Neither can I," said Joan, who was massaging a stitch in her ribs. "You've got a good sense of humor. Very dry and sardonic. You kind of remind me of Sherlock in that way."

A funny smile crossed Violet's face. "Do I now."

"Yeah." Joan looked up at Violet, taking stock of her for the first time. From her own petite height, everyone was tall, but Joan could tell that Violet Sherrinford was tall for a woman – 5'8" or 5'9", if her guess was at all accurate. Her beauty hadn't faded with time at all; she was still an amazingly beautiful woman at 70, with a youthful face, shimmering blonde hair cut short, and huge midnight-blue eyes... eyes that once again caught Joan's attention. They'd snagged her in the photograph for the same reason they snagged her now. In the photo, it had been the intelligence glittering in them, and now, it was not only the same sharp intelligence but the color that gave her a somewhat eerie feeling. Midnight-blue eyes with an unusual keenness and sparkle... she'd seen those very same eyes glowing in the face of her partner. _Dear Lord, her eyes are just like Sherlock's... but how can that be? Unless... No. It's not possible, _Joan thought, dismissing the notion with a mental wave of the hand. _If that were the case, Captain Gregson would've told me. _

"Tell me something, Joan," Violet said, snapping Joan back to attention. Her voice, with its lilting British accent, had a natural richness and warmth, putting her in mind of Mrs. Potts from _Beauty and the Beast._ "Why exactly are you here? You said that my life is in danger. I highly doubt it's because of the break-in, because the last I was aware, burglary did not warrant protective custody."

"You're right. What I said earlier was true. I am here on behalf of the NYPD because we have reason to believe that you're the next victim of a serial killer."

Violet's blue eyes darkened. "The Constant Gardener."

"How did you –"

"Old habits of a detective sergeant die hard. I've done my own research into the case. When I first heard about it, I wondered if the case was political, as he was named after a political thriller. But when I began conducting my own investigation, I realized why the police gave him that title. All of his victims are named after flowers... as am I."

"And they're all women of your age group, with blue eyes and blonde hair."

Reflexively, Violet ran a hand through her own blonde hair. "I don't suppose this killer is murdering older blondes because he believes in two archaic myths: that all older women are weak and that all blondes are stupid? Because if that is the case, he's in for a nasty shock should he ever get hold of me."

Joan barked a laugh. "You're really into gallows humor, aren't you?"

"My dear, when you work with the police in any country, it's part of the job description. Plus I believe that laughter can ease a tense situation, very much like the one we're in right now. And if my intuition tells me anything, you haven't laughed in a long time."

Joan shook her head, amazed at her insight. "No, I haven't. It's been a very long time since I've laughed about anything."

Violet's eyes narrowed slightly. "Does that partner of yours make you laugh at all?" When Joan shook her head again, Violet followed suit and murmured, so softly that Joan almost didn't hear her, "That boy." But then she looked back up at Joan and said, "Why don't you tell me about your life with Sherlock Holmes on the way to your house, darling? Speaking as a retired DS, I'd love to hear all about your adventures on the force here in New York."

Joan was on the point of asking her all about the significance of "that boy," but the softness of Violet's voice in that instance told her that she had better keep quiet about something so personal... at least for now. Shelving the thought away for the future, Joan grinned at the knowledge that Violet was actually willing to come with her. "I'd love to. Just brace yourself before you meet Sherlock. He's... an unusual man."

"That, my dear, is an understatement." When Joan turned inquisitive eyes to her, Violet merely smiled. "I'll tell you later. Just give me a minute to pack up. And don't worry about Sleeping Beauty in the kitchen. I've already called the police and they should be on their way to collect him."

Joan watched Violet disappear upstairs, curiosity bubbling up inside her. She was a mysterious one, all right. Sherlock was definitely going to get a run for his money with Violet Sherrinford in the house.


	5. Sons and Mothers

My thanks to everyone who's reviewed and followed so far - I didn't think this story was going to get a lot of notice, but y'all seem to be enjoying it! As for who I've pictured as Violet, the guessing game continues! So far, one person has guessed Helen Mirren - an excellent guess, but not quite. I'm sprinkling hints throughout the story - see if you can pick up on them!

* * *

Across town, Sherlock was breathing a sigh of relief. He and Alfredo had arrived on the scene in the nick of time and, after a lot of talking and a great deal of tears, had saved Alfredo's sponsee Jenna Corley from relapsing into heroin use. More to the point, Sherlock was proud of himself for taking Jenna's freshly-acquired packet of H into his palm, staring at it as though it were a hated enemy, and burning the entire stash – all without feeling the urge to shoot up. For Jenna, the act had been one of safety, of protection for her own well-being. But Alfredo knew that Sherlock's actions spoke of more than just the desire to save another person's life. It was a cleansing by fire for him personally, as well.

"You did good today, my friend," Alfredo said to Sherlock, who was throwing back a bottle of water as though it were scotch. Although given Sherlock's history with addiction, the fact that it was anything _but _alcohol was something fantastic. "Jenna won't be shooting up any time soon now that you've given her some tough love."

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful of water. "Speaking about my own history with addiction is hardly tough love, Alfredo," he said quietly, taking another sip. "Although to a young addict new to the world of sobriety, getting a glimpse into a mind that once possessed a horror factor to rival that of Stephen King's is undoubtedly an excellent incentive to remain on the straight and narrow path."

Alfredo's chuckle was low and deep as he worked on his latest car. "You sure do have a way with words, Holmes. You ought to be a poet, the way you talk half the time. Or is it just that British accent of yours?"

"Well, we do have the uncanny ability to say anything we want and make it sound like Shakespeare," Sherlock quipped. "But I digress." He gulped down another swig of water. "I've already put my own life in jeopardy too many times to count. Nothing on Earth is going to stop me from preventing somebody else from making the same mistake."

"Man, almost three years sober and you're talking like some hero."

Sherlock scoffed. "Trust me, Alfredo, I am as far from a hero as one can possibly get. There is nothing at all heroic about me, and I stopped believing in the heroes and heroines of fairy tales a long time ago... not that I had role models such as that to believe in growing up."

Alfredo slid himself out from under the car and frowned at his sponsor. "Not even your father?"

Sherlock shot him a black look. "A ruthless businessman hardly qualifies as a hero. Father came from the old school of grooming the eldest son to follow in his footsteps, and so he did. He snatched my brother Mycroft up the instant he was born, and it shows. For all his buffoonish tendencies, Mycroft has our father's corporate ruthlessness in spades. He'll stop at nothing to get what he wants."

"You're not just talking about business deals, are you?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment as an image of Joan swam before his eyes. His Joan, kissing Mycroft and gazing up at him with adoration in her eyes. Such a picture was enough to set his emotions afire, so much that he felt an inexplicable urge to stake out his territory like an animal... like a lion fighting another lion for his mate. It was like nothing he had ever felt before, and he only felt it whenever Mycroft was around or whenever he thought of his brother and Joan gazing at each other with such feeling. What on Earth _was _this emotion? This was something that couldn't be explained through logic, algorithms, and deductive reasoning. To explain a phenomena such as this, one would have to be _illogical... _and, for all his eccentricities, that was one thing that Sherlock Holmes most definitely was not. Still, the mystery was too enticing to pass up. He was going to solve it, maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but someday. Someday, he would solve the mystery of Joan Watson and himself.

"No. No, I'm not."

Alfredo nodded once. If there was one thing that Sherlock appreciated about his sponsee-turned-friend, it was his tact. The man knew enough not to pry too deeply, especially when it concerned Sherlock's partner. So, rather than get nosy, Alfredo went back to work on the car and resumed his flow of conversation with Sherlock. "Okay, so your old man was never a role model. What about your mother?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. _Mother... _now there was someone whom he hadn't heard much about recently... not since he'd moved to New York, any road. "My mother?"

"Is there an echo in here? Yes, genius, your mother. You do have one, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do. I just haven't heard from her in quite some time," he admitted, the thought stinging like a fresh slap to the face.

"Maybe she's been busy."

"She's _always _busy."

"Kinda like you?"

Sherlock bristled. Although some deeply-buried part of himself knew that that was the truth, his stubbornness screamed against even the slightest possibility that he was at all like his mother. "I'm my own person, Alfredo, and that's that. My mother... she's another enigma altogether."

"I take it you're not close, then?"

"No. Not now."

"Shame. You might regret it one of these days."

"Why?"

"Come on, man. It don't matter how tough you act or think you are. Inside every man is a boy who needs his mama's love, no matter how old he is. Don't tell me you and your mama weren't close when you were a kid."

Sherlock's heart clenched. Alfredo may not have possessed the powers of perception that he himself was blessed with, but the man could still see through to another person's soul. As his mind swirled around the thought, a memory surged to the surface... a memory from long, long ago.

_A thunderstorm slashing through England, lightning splitting the sky and rain lashing the windows of a quiet house on the outskirts of London... a frightened, lonely little boy crying at every crash of thunder, scared of the shadows on the wall performing their macabre dance... and a tall, slender woman coming into his room to gather him up in her arms and hold him against her breast, an unspoken affirmation that she would never leave him. He buried his face in her shoulder, smelled the fragrance of her perfume, and looked back up at her. Blonde hair that made her look like an angel. A smile that held such tenderness for him and him alone. Huge blue eyes gazing at him with love... his eyes. And her beautiful voice singing about how nothing would ever harm him, not while she was around._

_That song was a lie, _Sherlock thought bitterly. _Nothing but a lie. _"We were close, yes. But that was a long time ago," he replied, the _end of discussion_ at the end of that sentence going unsaid. And, as luck would have it, his text alert beeped. _Saved by the bell. _He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the screen. _Come home now, _read the message from Joan._ There's someone here you should meet._

"I'm sorry for cutting this short, Alfredo, but my partner just texted me. Apparently, she has a visitor that I need to meet."

"New boyfriend?"

There was that roaring protective urge again. "I hope not." He lifted his hand in a salute as he made his way out of the garage and onto the darkening streets of New York.

* * *

"Tell me, how on Earth did he manage to get hold of two roosters and tame them?"

"Don't ask me how he got them. All I know is that he wanted to prove that if he could teach them to cohabitate peacefully, they wouldn't cockfight anymore. Amazingly enough, it worked."

"And what are their names?"

"Romulus and Remus."

"Ah, the two brothers who quarreled over the founding of Rome. Very appropriate. And what about the turtle?"

"Clyde? He used to belong to a conspiracy theorist who was murdered. Sherlock took him in when we were investigating the case, and he kept going on and on about how he was going to make turtle soup. But Clyde grew on him and now he's part of the family. Sherlock loves him, but he'd sooner cut out his tongue than admit it. Every now and then, he dresses Clyde up in little shell-covers."

"He always was an odd one. But then, he gets it honestly."

Back at the brownstone, Joan and Violet were having a surprisingly jolly time taking a tour of the house. Joan had been slightly apprehensive about showing her new friend all of Sherlock's notes and pictures, the multi-television system, the three-animal zoo that consisted of the roosters and Clyde the turtle, and the apiary on the roof, but she needn't have worried. Violet was genuinely charmed by the house and all its contents, taking special delight in Sherlock's "experiments." She especially liked the animals, getting a kick out of the fact that Sherlock had successfully tamed and domesticated two roosters. As a matter of fact, Joan noticed that the expression on her face and the glitter in her eye were not merely the results of laughter, but of pride as well. Clearly, she was proud of Sherlock, very proud indeed... but why? Violet didn't know him from Adam.

"Well, Joan, I must say I'm impressed. This house is both organized and disorganized at the same time, but it works in a wonderful way. You two clearly make things work in all respects."

"Most respects, at least," Joan said as they returned to the living room. "I hope you like the room you'll be staying in. It's right next door to mine, so if you need anything at all..."

Violet held up a hand. "No worries, my dear; I'll be perfectly fine. And I do like the room very much. I think I'll be quite comfortable here. My only concern is Sherlock."

"I know. This is going to be a bit of a shock for him."

"More so than you think."

Before Joan could ask Violet what she meant, the sound of the front deadbolt unlatching echoed into the living room and the front door opened. "Speak of the devil, there he is." Joan walked out into the entrance hall to greet her partner, who was shrugging off his jacket. "About time you got here."

"Take a lesson, Watson. Never, ever take the subway home during the five o'clock rush hour. It is not worth the migraine." Sherlock hung his jacket on a nearby peg and fixed his eyes on his partner as though scrutinizing her. "You said you have a visitor you wish me to meet?"

"Yes. She's right here." Joan nodded at the living room and Violet stepped into the hall... and Sherlock's jaw hit the floor. "Oh... my... God," he breathed, his eyes the size of dinner plates.

"For someone who received a classical education in Latin, Greek, and the arts and sciences, you never were very original with words," Violet said with a slight smile, causing Joan's head to snap around to her. _She _does _know him!_

Sherlock's eyebrows darted downward and he shook his head, half in disbelief, half in anger. "What the devil are you doing here?"

Violet shot him a sardonic grin and held out her arms. "Now, Sherlock, really. Is that any way to greet your mother?"

If an H-bomb suddenly dropped on the house and blew them all to Kingdom Come, Joan couldn't have been more shell-shocked. Her almond-shaped eyes flung as wide as they could go, she stared first from Violet to Sherlock and then back to Violet again, mouth agape. "_Mother?_"

Sherlock spoke first, his eyes riveted upon the tall, elegant blonde who had birthed and raised him and was now standing before his very eyes. "Joan Watson, meet Violet Sherrinford Holmes... my mother."


	6. Family Feud

I can't believe the response I'm getting to this story; it's amazing! And y'all are just the greatest, you really are!

First things first: the guessing game. Which British actress did I picture as Sherlock's mom? Well, I've gotten some amazing guesses, including Helen Mirren, Julie Andrews (I'd never thought about her, but she would be my second choice), and Maggie Smith. Congratulations to Karen Weasley, who correctly guessed Angela Lansbury! All three of the aforementioned actresses would be awesome in the role of Violet Sherrinford, but it was Angela I pictured - she always seems to have this glitter of intelligence in her eyes and a sense of wisdom that I think are perfect qualities for Violet. And honestly, who better to play Sherlock Holmes's mother than the same woman who brought Jessica Fletcher to life?

Second: to Cutiekate8, thank you for pointing out my error concerning Clyde. I've rewritten that section of the story to fit with canon.

Third: Thank you all for following, favoriting, and reviewing! It's because of you that stories like this keep on going! God Bless!

* * *

"I just can't believe it," Joan said, still in shock from the bombshell of a revelation that had just been dropped. She turned to Violet with inquiries sparking in her eyes. "You're his mother? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I assumed that my _son…_" Violet emphasized the word as though she wanted Sherlock to remember that concrete fact, "would have told you already."

"You of all people ought to have remembered what happens when one assumes," Sherlock said darkly, shooting his mother a black look.

"And speaking of which, why didn't _you _tell me in the first place?" Joan asked, whipping around to face Sherlock and giving him a glare almost as filthy as the one he had bestowed upon his mother. "Are you just ashamed of your entire family for some reason or another? I never knew about Mycroft until we met in London last year, and your logic behind that is because he's allegedly a lazy, incompetent buffoon."

"Still insulting your brother, are you?" Violet asked Sherlock, although she didn't look very surprised to know of her younger son's feelings toward her eldest.

"Is the atomic weight of plutonium 244.06?" Sherlock asked, his glare still rigidly etched into his brow.

Ignoring this little exchange, Joan continued directing her barrage at her partner. "And now to find out that you have a mother and you've never bothered to tell me about her? Good grief, Sherlock, it's a good thing your father was the one who hired me to be your sober companion, or else I might never have known about him either!"

"Yes, that was very kind of him," Violet stated vaguely.

"Kindness had nothing to do with it. Father only gave me a sober companion because he didn't want the family name besmirched even more by my disgrace, not because he gave a rat's bum whether I lived or died."

"Oh, he did care, Sherlock, and does care. _He _cares more than you'll ever know," Violet said cryptically, her eyes boring into her son's.

As mother and son continued to glare daggers at each other, Joan began to realize that railing at Sherlock was futile. He already maintained a stone wall around his heart when it came to his family, and the presence of his mother only built that wall up to Jericho-like proportions. There had to be a way to blow the proverbial horn and make the walls come crumbling down, but now was not the time to figure it out. Now was the time to protect their innocent and get on with their assignment. "Okay, if you two are done playing Family Feud, we do have an assignment to carry out. Sherlock… there's a good reason why Violet's here."

"There bloody well better be," he growled.

"Trust me, there is. As of now, we have protective custody of her."

Sherlock snorted. "From whom? Jack the Ripper?"

Disgusted with his attitude, Joan punched him hard in the shoulder. "Shut up! I don't know what issues there are between you two, but you have got to put them aside. She is still your mother, and right now, her life is in danger."

Sherlock shook his head. "Watson, do be more specific. What are you talking about?"

Joan inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring when she let it out again. "She's the Constant Gardener's next victim, Sherlock. If we don't let her stay here with us and protect her, she's going to be murdered."

Sherlock's entire body went rigid and his eyes flicked from Joan to his mother, then back to his partner again. "Watson… I swear to you, if this is a joke or some twisted attempt to reconcile me with my mother, our partnership is over. Are you absolutely certain of what you just related to me?"

"Yes, Sherlock. When I went to the scene of the Constant Gardener's fourth victim earlier, Marcus and Captain Gregson showed me his calling cards. There was a bouquet of violets and a picture of Violet, your mother, when she was younger. You know the case and you know his calling cards. When he leaves those two things, you know for a fact that he's already chosen his next victim and he _will _commit another murder. And now that a family member is involved, we have to catch this guy more than ever."

"She's right, you know." Sherlock's eyes darted over to his mother as she approached them. "You have to catch him before he murders someone else."

"Before he murders _you, _you mean."

Violet waved a hand. "Sherlock, this is not about me. This is about someone else other than me being killed, should he give up on me. He's already slaughtered four innocent women, and nobody knows why he's done it, where he is, or who he is. If you won't do this for me, then do it for every older woman in New York."

A muscle twitched in Sherlock's face. As much as he hated to admit it, his mother was right. And even more maddening, that statement sounded exactly like something he would have said to Joan… although Joan would have done it for him, whether or not they were on the outs. So why couldn't he do it for his mother?

_You know why, _the little demon on his shoulder whispered in his ear. _You know exactly why, and the woman who calls herself your mother is to blame. If you've got any sense at all, mate, you'll do your duty and then go back to your life of isolation. _

_Isolation… you just love to torment me, don't you?_

_I'm not doing or saying anything that you haven't already done or said to yourself, sunshine. You're a mentally bodged blighter, the only two people who can help you are right before you, and you won't let them in. _The devil cackled. _Sucks to be you, doesn't it?_

Sherlock gave the demon a mental _bog off _before calling upon every last bit of his British resolve. _Keep calm and carry on, they say. Well, that's exactly what I'll do. _"Very well, then." He nodded at his partner. "Come on. We have to pay Captain Gregson a call."

"Well, it's about time. I thought you'd never ask."

Sherlock whipped around to see Violet pulling on her jacket. "When I said _we, _I meant Watson and myself. As long as you're in protective custody, you're not going anywhere."

Violet yanked her jacket straight and raised her chin slightly. "I'd like to see you try and stop me, you jumped-up little twit."

Sherlock felt the back of his neck go red at both the jab and at the snicker that Joan tried to muffle. "It's our duty to protect you from a serial killer. If you set so much as one foot outside, you will become an immediate target."

"And if I stay here alone, I'll be a sitting duck. If I go out with the two of you, I'll be with you at all times. You will have a much better chance of protecting me if we're all together. There's a great deal of truth to the old cliché 'There's safety in numbers.'"

"Safety, perhaps, but not efficacy, if all you'll be doing is tagging along while Watson and I work on this case."

"Who said anything about tagging along? I'm going to help you in your investigation."

Sherlock's jaw dropped for the second time that day. "What? Are you mad?"

Violet grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder. "Joan and I spent some time discussing this case while waiting for you to come home. Four victims so far and you and the rest of the NYPD are no closer to catching this killer than you were when the first body was found. Joan has nearly three years' experience with police work plus her medical background; you have over 20 years' experience from your time at Scotland Yard, and I have 40 years' experience from my tenure as a detective sergeant. That is over 60 years of criminology and crime solving that we have between us."

"Simple arithmetic is not going to get us anywhere."

"It may get you further than you have so far. Listen, I am not trying to slight your work in any way. All I'm saying is that you may need a little more help in solving this mystery. To be fair, I'll ask your captain if I can be of any assistance. If he says no, I will stay out of it. But if he says yes, I'm on the case with you whether you like it or not. Are we agreed?"

Sherlock stared evenly at his mother, despite the fact that he felt ten years old again. "Agreed."

Violet smiled and nodded once before sweeping out the door. Sherlock shook his head and muttered to Joan, "Stay out of it, she says. In a pig's eye she'll stay out of it. Even when she was still working for Scotland Yard, Mother did whatever she pleased regardless of the consequences."

"Sounds like somebody else I know." Joan merely offered Sherlock's glaring face a blithe smile as they donned their jackets and departed.


End file.
